


Is That a Gun In Your Pocket Or...That's a Gun In Your Pocket

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Assassins & Hitmen, Derek is a Good Boyfriend, Derek with Guns, Guns, Like a Shitload of Guns, M/M, Pablo Neruda - Freeform, Romantic Comedy, The Hale Family, Zip Ties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2202876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is the best boyfriend.<br/>He's sweet. He's funny. He recites Pablo Neruda completely unprovoked.<br/>He also happens to be in the murder business. But hey, nobody's perfect.</p><p>- </p><p>A romantic comedy with guns and roses.<br/>(Well, maybe not the roses.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaccoonLoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaccoonLoon/gifts).



> Raccoon wandered into the Sterek Campaign Chatzy and requested gun-toting Derek. Like Punisher-level armory Derek. This is what fell out. 
> 
> The lyrics are original. Recording may soon follow, because Alena is amazeballs. 
> 
> The poem Derek recites is by Pablo Neruda, "Tus Pies".

Stiles tends to keep his head down on the train to work. He gets into enough trouble as it is. There’s no need to make eye contact with some random oddball and land himself in hot water. He’s seen enough news broadcasts about walkmen and bath salts to last him a lifetime.

You never know what kind of crazy is out there.

On a particularly packed-in Thursday, he politely gives up his seat to an older woman who rolls her eyes, but takes him up on it anyway. After that, he stays pretty much self-contained, drumming at his denim-clad thigh with one hand and holding the overhead loop with the other. He bobs his head lightly to the music and tries to ignore everything but the ticker announcing the stops as they draw up to each station.

_I did it, I did it / Didn’t think I had it in me_   
_Mama, shoulda listened better/ last time I talked to you_   
_Ma, you’d thought you taught me better/ Maybe I thought it too_   
_Gonna stick me in a body bag and send me back to you_

Stiles doesn’t realize that he’s ‘ _ooh’_ ing along until he glances up and sees the perfectly stubbled guy who’s shared his morning commute for the past few weeks smiling at him. Wow. That’s both heart-melting _and_ embarrassing.

He fumbles in his head for something confident and witty to say, but the words dry up in his mouth when the guy’s eyes move past him and sink into the middle distance. Once again, his social skills have pulled off the impossible. Hottie McTightpants is officially tired of him before he’s said a word. It’s a new record. He’ll have to tell Scott.

Just before his stop comes up, the train jerks and someone bumps into him hard. He stumbles forward, his arm pulling awkwardly as he maintains his grip on the handhold over his head. That’s going to hurt for a while.

The guy backs up with a half-assed, “Sorry, sorry.” Stiles doesn’t let it bother him. If he was fussed about getting jostled, he’d find an alternate mode of transportation. As it is, the Jeep is a little _too_ fussy to depend on these days. He’ll live.

When the doors slide open, Stiles strides out with purpose. Riding the train to work is like experiencing misery in a can, and he’s not up for an extra helping just now. He pauses at the newsstand to buy some pick-me-up Twizzlers and… his wallet is gone. Of course his wallet is gone. The vendor looks at him with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion. He doesn’t know whether to explain himself or run off in search of the jerk that lifted his wallet.

It might be one of the most aggravating moments of his life, but then he hears someone shout, “Hey!”

He looks up and _Hottie McTightpants_ is jogging toward him, breathing normal and perfectly semi-kempt, as usual. He is holding Stiles’ wallet up and smiling. Stiles is going to upgrade that nickname to Gorgeous McHeropants or something that doesn’t make him sound completely pathetic. Maybe even the guy’s actual name.

“I believe this is yours.”

“You’re my hero. I thought someone stole it.”

“He did.” Perfection McBunnyteeth shrugs. “I got it back.”

“You got it back.”

“Yes?” He gives Stiles a strange look and wiggles his wallet between them, _lo I have acquired the object see how tangible it is._ “That’s how I got it.”

“I -- that’s cool. Most people wouldn’t… I’m not even gonna ask.” Stiles takes the wallet back and ducks his head shyly. _Don’t blow it don’t blow it just this once be charming you asshole._ “ Thank you _._ This means a lot to me. I’m Stiles.”

“Derek. And it was no problem.”  
  
“Really, I don’t know how to thank you for this. There isn’t even that much in here. It’s just there’s a picture of my mom, and my metro card, and…yeah.”

Derek smiles. “You could give me your phone number.”

“Why?” Stiles stops short, nearly gagging on air and complete social ineptidude. _Why? Gee, maybe so he can get you a therapist to_ _**help figure out what’s wrong with you**_ _._ “Please forget I said that. Please.”

Derek’s bunny teeth toy with his lower lip in a move made for Hallmark cards and his every domestic fantasy before spreading into a wider grin. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I might require hospitalization. I’m terminally awkward.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Derek offers his cell phone, open to the Add a Contact screen, and Stiles takes it. His hands don’t shake. _Small mercies._ He enters his name and number with a quick flurry of thumbs and presses it back into Derek’s hand.

“I won’t blame you if you don’t actually call, you know.”

“I will. Trust me.” He shoots a text to Stiles’ number. A winky face emoji. Stiles walks on cotton candy clouds all the way to work. A winky face emoji. His life is officially complete.

 

\---

 

Derek does intend to call him. He absolutely will, but first he has some business to take care of. He hustles back to the janitor’s closet he stuffed the pickpocket into and locks the door behind him. Jack Crating, serial arsonist and low-level Derringer-syndicate assclown has been hastily ziptied.

He crouches down by his head, a firm hand turning his face up for proper inspection. He holds up his phone, exits out of Stiles’ contact information, and double checks for the umpteenth time that he’s bagged the correct jackass.

His nose is kind of purple and crooked now, but he’s reasonably certain this is the right one.

“Hey there, Jack,” he drawls. “Thanks to you, I can eat something other than instant ramen for the next few months.”

Jack makes a whimpering noise and Derek drops his head, letting it fall back to the floor. He navigates to his favorites menu and thumbs Laura’s name before tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Derek, how’s it going?”

“Are they going to mind if I broke his nose? Because I broke his nose.”

“Nah.” He can hear her clicking around in the background. “It looks like you’re good. If you want to give him a few more love taps, that’ll be cool too. But that’s more Cora’s thing. Did he do something to piss you off?”

“He stole Stiles’ wallet.”

“What’s a Stiles?”

“Captain Kangaroo.”

“ _Oh my gosh, you got his name?!_ Go little brother!”

“I got his phone number, too.” He should probably not be feeling like a blushing junior high school girl, but he’s had a massive crush on this kid for weeks. He’s spent the entire time giving up his seat, drumming on every available surface, and humming along to a playlist of songs that Derek is just dying to hear. Three days in, he’d called Laura just to enthuse that he’d recognized the beats and ‘ba ba ba’s of “Warhead Jones and the Lollipop Men”.

“Wow. That’s amazing, Der. I’m so happy for you. Now you can finally stop riding the train every day. Now get your car out of my garage.”

“Yeah, yeah. I love you too.”

The muffled grunts and whines from the floor intensify as Derek bundles the target up for transit. In his experience, as long as you kept your eyes straight and _looked_ like you knew what you were doing, people tended not to intervene. Even when you were carrying a 5’8” guy with zipcuffs and a gag. At least, not when you looked like Derek.

His smile twists a little. It’s going to be a great day. “Jack says ‘hi’.”

“Just take him to receiving. I need a new vibrator like burning.”

\---

 

Derek calls Stiles on Friday, hangs up, and calls back. The second time, Stiles is panting as he answers the phone. “Sorry.” He says. “I was in the shower. Technically I’m still in the shower. Precariously leaning. I risked a concussion for you.”

“Don’t do that.” Derek says. “If you brain yourself and get amnesia, you won’t remember our date on Sunday.”

“Date?” Stiles squeaks. “Like two people, one activity, possible goodnight kiss? You want to attempt to _woo_ me?”

“Yes?”

“But you’ve met me in person!”

“And yet.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“I mean, you’ve already told me that you’re naked and wet. That might hold me over.”

“That’s so creepy, dude.”

“You’re the one that brought it up.”

“Touché.” Stiles mutters. “It’s not like I’m going to turn you down. Have you seen you?”

“Trade secret. I’m actually a vampire. I have _no idea_ what I look like. Haven’t since a few of us discovered fire and shaped the wheel. You’re welcome.”

“That explains the beard. How about the zoo? All the fun of stalking your prey with none of the risks. I’ll warn you, though; the mammoths are all naked.”

“Wrong age, but I see what you did there.”

“But will you see me at the zoo?”

“Yeah. Noon sound okay?”

“Noon sounds like a dream wrapped up in a perfect ass wrapped up in denim.”

Derek laughs and lets Stiles get on with his shower.

 

\---

 

“I have a date,” he tells Cora. “He thinks my ass is perfect.”

“Ew,” Cora says. “Just ew.”

\---

 

Derek and Stiles do, in fact, go to the zoo. Stiles stays upright the entire time, thanks in large part to the leather-encased arm Derek offers him at the beginning of their outing. Things only go up from there. Derek is just as taken in by the naked molerats as Stiles is, and he confesses to maybe watching Kim Possible when it was still airing.

“I have sisters,” he tries weakly.

“That’s what they all say.”

It turns out that despite the carved-out cagefighter look Derek has going on, he’s also kind of a gigantic dork. They spend a decent chunk of the afternoon debating iterations of Star Trek and whether Ensign Kim or Tigger ( _as in Winnie the Pooh?!_ ) would win in a fight. Nobody wins. They have to knock it off because the argument becomes heated enough that families glare at them in the frozen lemonade line.

Derek buys Stiles a stuffed giraffe which he promptly names Guggenheim, and there is absolutely a goodnight kiss with quite a bit of goodnight tongue. It’s not exactly proper for a first date, but Miss Manners can kiss his ass if it means five more seconds lip-locking with the most perfect individual ever.

\---

Stiles can’t seem to find a way down from Cloud 9. After that first date, it’s like the sun has lodged itself up Derek’s ass, and Stiles can’t help but bask in his magnificent glow. Everyone else thinks the metaphor is seriously gross, but no one can really get him to stop.

It doesn’t matter, because Derek thinks he’s funny. Derek also thinks he’s cute, generous, sexy, and intellectually engaging. He’s really sorry that doesn’t come with a diploma he can hang on the wall. _Fuck you I matriculated from Derek Hale Finds Me Attractive University. Suck it._

Scott gags a lot more in the first week than he ever has in his life. Stiles says it’s revenge. Scott explains that, “No, it’s stomach acid. You’re gross. This is gross. But I’m happy for you, dude.”

He understands that he’s probably going just a teensy bit overboard, but he can’t stop. It’s like Pringles, except instead of a creepy mustached dude, there’s a hot guy that wants to touch his dick. Once it pops, he can’t shut the fuck up.

He spends at least half of his free time with this beautiful, sculpted secret nerd of a boyfriend who debates comics with him and also sometimes recites Pablo Neruda. Unprompted. In Spanish.

\---

The first time it happens, Stiles is completely satisfied, if not a little sticky with sweat and saliva. He figures it’s a decent trade off for the amazing tumble they just took. As long as they keep this up, Stiles will never ask for another holiday present ever again. Except for maybe lube. His dad probably won’t appreciate that one.

“I’m really fucking loopy. Can you get cum drunk?” he asks.

Derek huffs a laugh into his hair, wrapping one arm tighter around him as the other draws patterns against his stomach. It tickles a little, but he does his best to stay still. This moment feels too important to move. “ _Cuando no puedo mirar tu cara miro tus pies_ …”

Stiles shifts against his shoulder, staring up at his face with wide eyes. This is happening. This is a thing. Derek is half-asleep, holding him tight, and rumbling Spanish poetry into his ear. “ _Tus pies de hueso arqueado, tus pequeños pies duros_.”

“Are you reciting poetry for me?”

“Do you mind?”

“Are you sure you’re real?”

Derek smothers his laughter and blushing cheeks in the pillow. Stiles turns his chin so that they’re nose to nose and peppers short, chaste kisses to his lips. “No, no,” he says. “Until I fall asleep?”

Derek continues to recite, his chest rumbling under Stiles’ palm. “ _Yo sé que te sostienen, y que tu dulce peso sobre ellos se levanta..._ ”

 

\---

Stiles doesn’t really know how to respond to Spanish poetry. Scott insists that he doesn’t _have_ to, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles’ tiny reptilian brain is telling him he’s been _challenged._

He’s riding to work one morning, fussing with yet another obsessively tailored playlist du jour when he realizes… that’s it. That’s his poetry. He spends the next three days slaving over the perfect mixture of songs in his every spare moment. There are probably permanent dents on either side of his head from the over ear headphones he’s insisted on using to ensure 100% Romance.

Derek thinks he’s stuck on a project for work, but he doesn’t seem to mind much. Now and then, he’ll pull Stiles away for a Netflix marathon, a walk in the park, or a nice cozy homemade dinner.

When Stiles presents the cobalt blue jewel case, the disc inside decorated in painstakingly thought-out Sharpie designs, he’s a 5’11” tangle of nerves and sappy feelings.

“What is this?” Derek asks.

“A mix CD.” Stiles answers, shifting from foot to foot.

“Really?” Derek seems to light up. Stiles doesn’t really get it, but Derek is grinning like he’s made some grand gesture.

“I didn’t know you were interested in music.”

“I’m not, really.” Derek stops, seeing the frown on his face. “I mean I am. I just don’t have much of an ear.”

“No taste?”

“Not since I was a kid.”

“Well, you’re in luck, then. I happen to have excellent taste.”

“Mm. I could tell.” Derek sets the case on the coffee table and leans forward to wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist. He leans in to nip at the shell of his ear. “You’ve been singing in your sleep.”

“I am so sorry about that. Seriously.”

Derek laughs. “No, I like it. Really. Who wouldn’t want their boyfriend to sing them to sleep?”

Stiles tries to bury his face in Derek’s shoulder, but the taller man isn’t exactly indulging his need to hide. He feels the brush of stubble against the side of his throat before the warm, wet pressure of teeth and tongue.

“Not gonna listen first?”

“Not yet. There’s something else I’d like to hear first.”

“Are you serious? We’re doing this now?”

“You gave me a thoughtful gift. I’m reciprocating.”

“With your dick? How thoughtful.”

Derek stops short, half way to pinning Stiles on the couch. He’s certainly a pretty picture, one knee resting between Stiles’ thighs, his shirt coming untucked just enough to show a hint of skin along his waistband. “Do you not want to? I’m sorry. You gave me a present and I jumped right to--”

“No! No! I was just being obnoxious, okay? Jee-sus. Like I could ever turn you down.”

Derek nearly purrs as Stiles’ hands slip under the fabric of his shirt. “Reassuring,” he jokes, and Stiles’ fingers crook, nails dragging hot pressure over the planes of his chest and stomach.

“What was that?” Stiles blinks up at him, tilting his hips to ride Derek’s thigh, already half-hard in his sweats. He’s one manipulative little bastard when he wants to be, but Derek doesn’t mind.

He leans down onto his elbows, rocking his hips in slow, easy motions until Stiles is whining underneath him. It doesn’t take long at all. Stiles’ face flushes and his bottom lip is catches between his teeth. Derek thinks about kissing him, then. He thinks about coaxing that full lip out and teasing it himself. He thinks about Stiles, kiss-bruised and debauched beneath him in a hundred different positions. But right now he wants to hear him. He curls his fingers under the elastic band of his sweats, skimming his thumbs over the soft skin just above.

Stiles giggles.

It’s moments like these that remind him just how easy it would be to break this boy, and just how far he’s prepared to go to ensure that it never happens. He breathes in and out, slowly. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

“You always do.” Stiles gives a cocky little smile, lifting up obediently so that Derek can get his shirt off. He reaches for the button and fly of Derek’s jeans, only to be brushed off. “What about you?”

“I’m thanking you, remember?” Derek runs his nails lightly from the hollow of Stiles’ throat, over a pert nipple and down over the sensitive skin of his belly. Lower and lower. In one steady movement, he slides Stiles’ sweats down below his knees and settles himself over his boyfriend’s dick. “Are you not interested?”

“I’m interested. I am _so_ fucking interested.” Stiles reaches down to touch himself, to move things along, but Derek grasps his fingers. “I’m not gonna make you put your hands above your head, but for now, everything from the waist down is mine. You can watch, but you’re not allowed to touch.” There’s a low, growling tone to his voice that leaves Stiles in a breathless rush to obey.

So really, there’s not much air on his lungs when he starts choking and whining, fingers digging into the cushions for purchase as Derek runs his tongue down the shaft, breathing hotly against his hole before coming back up.

He scrapes his teeth over the head, a ghost of pain that gains him another high, shivering keening sound. “Play with your nipples, if you’re so desperate for something to touch.”

Stiles frowns at him, ready with some quick bit of sass, but it coincides with Derek taking the head into his mouth and humming, and what actually comes out is somewhere between a laugh and a moan. Without further complaint, one hand comes up to play with a peaked nipple, but it doesn’t last long.

He’s too involved in the warm, wet suction of Derek’s mouth, the easy slide as his boyfriend takes all of him without hesitation. Big, calloused hands are anchored on his hips, but there’s no pressure. Derek isn’t so much preventing him from bucking up as he is from slipping away, and there is no _universe_ in which that could possibly happen.

In the end, he tangles both hands in his own hair, tugging gently and gnawing on his lower lip as Derek works him fast, his soft, dark hair falling into his face as he looks up, a smug smile in his eyes. Stiles can’t quite manage the strength to knee him in the side.

Instead he whispers, “Love you,” and feels more than hears the low groan echoing in Derek’s throat. “Love you. Love you. _Fuck._ ”

When he finally comes, Derek withdraws slowly, licking his lips and pressing a soft kiss to the join of hip and thigh. “Thought we were saving that.”

“Yeah? Well, I meant it, so…”

“I love you, too.” He crawls up the couch and weasels between Stiles and the back cushions, draping an arm over his hip. “Didn’t think it’d happen just yet.”

“I made you a _mix CD._ You recite _Pablo Neruda._ We’re pretty much terminally gone on each other.”

Derek laughs, and Stiles leans up to peck him on the lips before settling back into his post-orgasmic puddle. “You have a point.”

“I always do. … I’m gonna miss you when you leave, you know?”

“I know. I’ll miss you, too. And I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

“Sure, sure.”

“And every night, I’ll fall asleep to the mix CD you made me.”

Stiles winces. “Not such a great idea. You ever hear of a band called Viagressive?”

“Oh no. Stiles, no.”

“Like I said, baby: Not at night.”

He waits until Derek is settled against him and dozing off before singing the chorus to _Whoreface._

 

\---

Stiles doesn’t really mind Derek’s sporadic business trips. They start off with mopey packing and clingy, passionate goodbye sex. They end with enthusiastic luggage-flinging and clingy, passionate hello sex. It’s difficult to pick a favorite.

The time that passes between tends to leave Stiles blue, but they text at every opportunity and Derek sends pictures when he can. Stiles does too, on the rare occasion he finds something worth sharing with his errant boyfriend.

He doesn’t really pay attention to the odd durations or the scattered nature of Derek’s absences. He waves off Scott’s concerned ‘What, really?’s and ‘Again?! Dude!’s.

In every relationship, there’s an ‘Oh’ moment. If Derek’s ‘Oh’ moment is realizing that he travels a lot and makes up for it with mad passionate monkey sex and nesting cuddles, then Stiles figures he can count himself among the lucky ones.

With Derek he feels safe and wanted. They challenge each other every day, and they’re better for it. He’s always learning something new: bits of foreign languages, interesting facts about other cultures, and the occasional impassioned diatribe about the dos and don’ts of travel. (Derek is a fan of complementary fuzzy socks, not so much of running from Gate B2 to F18 with five minutes until boarding.)

Such is the life of an insurance adjuster.

\---

Except Derek isn’t an insurance adjuster.

Travel is not his ‘Oh’ moment.

 

 


	2. The 'Oh' Moment

With Derek in his life, Stiles has had a lot more opportunities to practice his cooking. After moving out of his childhood home, he’d begun to worry that he’d revert back to the Cup Noodle and Chicken McNugget days of yesteryear. Fortunately he was wrong.  

In the search for fresh ingredients and bulk packages of bottled water, he spends a lot more time than he used to in the grocery store. He’s developed a friendly relationship with most of the employees except Carla, who still gives him shit for lighting her bushes on fire one 4th of July. He’s working on it. One day she’ll realize how charming he is (and that once she does, he’ll stop schmoozing at her in the checkout.)

As a regular customer in his adulthood, and as the Sheriff’s kid for years before that, he knows most of the locals, if only in passing. So when a new face shows up and starts shadowing him around the store, he notices.

The guy is dressed in dark colors and acts casually, reading labels and checking price displays, but there are only so many aisles one can weave in and out of without arousing suspicion. (Also who the hell puts anchovy paste and Lucky Charms in the same basket? Ugh.)

But when his tail notices his attention he _smiles_ , broad and confident. He holds up the cantaloupe he’s been pretending to examine and sniffs it _menacingly._

Stiles has never gone through self-checkout quite so quickly. Jokingly, Bernice offers him a job. She’s probably offended at how quickly and clumsily he brushes her off. He’ll make it up to her later. Right now he’s more preoccupied with getting behind a locked door.

_What the hell was that about?_

 

\---

 

When Derek comes back from his latest business trip, he looks totally dead on his feet. He’s dusty and stiff, and when he lets himself in and sees Stiles, it’s like tiny muscle faeries are struggling to pull the corners of his mouth up.

Just the sight of Derek makes Stiles feel a hundred times better. He rises from the couch and wraps his arms gently around Derek’s neck. He waits for Derek to lean down and kiss him. “You didn’t have to come here first, babe. You could’ve taken a nap. I’d understand.”

“Wanted to see you. It was bad is all.”

Stiles hisses. “I can imagine.” He’s not exactly sure how Derek’s job works, but he’s seen some pretty nasty accident photos throughout the course of his life. He doesn’t want to know what it is that wiped Derek out like this.

“More kissing?” Derek mumbles against his lips.

“Mm. If you insist.”

“I do.” Derek pecks the corner of his mouth. “Needed to see you.” On to the opposite corner. “Had to touch you.” From there on out, conversation is done. There is no extracting Derek’s tongue from Stiles’ tonsils, and Stiles has no problem at all with this turn of events.

That is, until he runs his palms down the broad, muscular back and stop at his waistline. He knows that feeling. Derek is wearing a gun holster. _What the fuck does he need with a gun?_

He pulls back just slightly. There has to be a reasonable explanation, after all.

He hears Derek mutter, “Fuck.”

Stiles steps back a few paces, looking Derek up and down, taking him in like he’s reevaluating the complete package. There is clearly something he’s missed here.

“Is that...is that a gun? Holy shit, it _is._ What the _fuck?!_ You said you were an insurance adjuster! _**What kind of insurance do you adjust, Derek?!** _ ”

“I…”

“Is this what the tail was about?”

“What tail, Stiles? Has someone been following you? Did they hurt you?!”

“What, your rival insurance adjusters?!”

“Stiles, I’m being serious!”

"Fuck, sure! Why not?!" Stiles throws his hands up. "Some douchebag followed me around Safeway a few nights ago. Did you know you can examine cantaloupe threateningly? Because you can. It has officially been done. And it was really gross."

“I need you to come with me.”

“You know, I’m not sure if I should.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest.Derek looks more worn out than he’s ever seen him. It shouldn’t be as effective as it is.

“Fine.”

\---

 

Derek’s place is a lot more spartan than Stiles imagined it would be. He’s only been able to imagine, of course, because Derek was super weird about Stiles seeing his apartment. Stiles chalked it up to bad history or slobbish tendencies, but now he thinks he has some inkling.

For a gun-toting, secret-keeping asshat, his place looks surprisingly normal. He’s pretty sure every single piece of furniture comes from the hallowed halls of the local Ikea except for the bookshelves. Those are surprisingly ornate and stuffed with books of all sizes, colors, and bindings.

Derek holds up a hand as if motioning for his attention and walks over to one end of the case, moving a heavy bound volume aside and entering a series of numbers into a keypad. With a hydraulic-sounding _whoosh_ , the bookcases open up to reveal a _wall of heavy weaponry._

“Is that a _rocket launcher?!_ What the hell kind of insurance are you into then, Derek? Do they insure warlords? Is that a _thing_?!”

"Stiles," Derek growls. "I'm not actually in insurance, Jesus. It's just a cover."

"Aw, gee, Derek. I couldn't tell."

Derek shifts in place, and Stiles realizes with a sinking feeling that he has stumbled ass over ankles into a 'now I have to kill you' situation. Derek looks like he's swallowed a truckload of salt. "This is awkward."

This is not awkward. Awkward was a clown giving out condom balloon animals at a nine-year-old’s birthday party. (It was a summer job and a mistake he would _never repeat again._ ) This was beyond awkward. This was gravely distressing at best.

"No shit," he mumbles. "Still kinda hot, though.” He wants to kick himself. Really, he does. But he’s been gone on Derek since the jerk had trotted after him, waving and smiling in the crowded subway station.

Come to think of it, Derek never did tell him _how_ he got the wallet back. Stiles really doesn’t want to think about it.

"’Kinda hot?’” Derek asks. Like Stiles has suddenly confessed a sexual attraction to scorpions. “You find out I have an exhaustive _arsenal_ and you think it’s ‘kinda hot’?”

"Well, not the killing people thing. I'm guessing that's what the guns are for. And the grenade launcher. Holy shit. But yeah. No. You with thigh holsters. Against all better judgement, I'm feeling pretty horny."

"Are you joking?"

“No. That’s the scary part.”

“The scary part is that _you’re not running away_. I’m worried about you. This should scare the hell out of you, Stiles.”

“I figured that.” Stiles glances at the armory, runs his gaze over barrels and triggers and the business ends of all manner of boom sticks before finally landing back on Derek. “It doesn’t really mesh, though. Does it?”

“Mesh with _what,_ Stiles? I hunt people down for a living.”

“You also cuddle like a frightened Rhesus monkey and recite poetry until I fall asleep and give me foot rubs for no reason. Not exactly threatening.”

“ _How is this not getting through to you?_ ”

“It’s getting through, Derek. Believe me. I am so _unbelievably_ pissed off right now, but I can’t figure out how to be _scared_ of you.”

“You should be.”

“I can’t be, you gigantic asshole. And I’m trying _really fucking hard_ but mostly I just can’t believe how fucking _stupid_ I was for believing that you were an _insurance adjuster._ And that you _lied_ to me. And that some dickbag has been _following me_ because I’m fucking you.”

Derek looks like he’s taken a punch to the gut.

“But I still can’t be scared of you because you’re _Derek_ , and _Derek_ is pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The corners of his mouth twist up. “That’s fucked up.”

“Gee, you think? I can’t stop thinking about you reciting Pablo Neruda in thigh holsters.And nothing else. You could kill me after that, and I’d die happy. With a raging boner, but happy.”

"Stiles, I– I'm not going to kill you."

"Oh, good. Because honestly my only line of defense is climbing on you like a spider monkey and running as fast as my scrawny legs can carry me in a general thataway."

"Your legs aren't scrawny, Stiles. And you're probably the best thing that's ever happened to me, too."

Stiles blinks for a few moments, then points to himself. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Which is why I need to keep you safe. Look, if any of these… people come near you, I want you to be prepared."

"Prepared to shoot them?" Stiles squeaks. "Just like that?"

"They won't have any problems doing worse to you."

Stiles swallows roughly. "Okay. Yeah. I'll take the Glock."

"Like your dad's service weapon. Sentimental."

"Serviceable," Stiles corrects. "You honestly think the Sheriff's kid doesn't know how to shoot?"

And that? That does it for Derek. He’ll have to tell Laura about this later. For now, he has to find his thigh holsters.

\---

 

Stiles and Derek, miraculously, remain an item. At first, it’s sort of like dating an action hero. Technically he _is_ dating an action hero, if the sappiest one ever. Things remain pretty normal, with the added bonus of dates at the firing range and seemingly endless anecdotes from the business of violence.

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s anxious to meet the man’s sisters, or if he’s just praying for them to stay away forever. He’s pretty sure Cora is in South America somewhere, toppling drug cartels and terrorizing corrupt government officials. Derek won’t confirm or deny anything (partially for security, and partially because his little sister scares him shitless), but Stiles gets that vibe from the stories he’s heard.

And he _has_ heard stories. Stories about the three months Cora spent pretending to be a gay French exchange student (at the end of which she’d reenacted most of a scene from _Dead Poets Society_ ), about Laura’s whirlwind engagement to a bond jumper in Wyoming, and about the more comical installments of Derek’s disastrous love life.

At this point, his sisters are beloved (if not morally gray) story book heroes. He thinks he prefers to enjoy the _idea_ of them from afar, but the choice isn’t exactly his to make.

Stiles meets Laura at 4:34 PM on a Friday, walking into Derek’s place with an armful of groceries. He feels a brief pressure against the pulse point at the base of his neck, and he’s down like a sack of rocks. When he comes to, it’s to the sight of straight white teeth, dark hair, and a whole lot of cleavage.

“Rude.” He says. “I’m gonna guess Laura.”

“Bingo.” She says. “The question _now_ is where you got that bit of information. I could just assume that you’re here for my brother, but he doesn’t give out his spare key. Which leaves us with a pretty troubling outlook, don’t you think?”

“Aw, geez. How many hitmen do you know who _bring groceries?_ ”

“You’d be surprised.” She taps him on the nose. “It’s a pretty popular cover. I’ve seen eggplants used as silencers. Milk cartons, too. So tell me, what’s your poison?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at her. In this moment, he realizes that his common sense has to be pretty damn dented, because it’s not normal to wake up chained up in a chair by a trained killer and think _Did she at least put the ice cream in the freezer?_ “Cheeseburgers,” He growls. “Cheeseburgers and marathon sex. With your brother. Because I’m his boyfriend. I’ve been feeding him things other than protein shakes and Chewy bars. You’re welcome.”

Laura snorts. “Cute.”

“Damn straight.” He shifts in the chair and seriously regrets not taking a more active stance on getting Derek some decent, comfortable furniture. “Hand cuffs? Really?”

“Really what?”

“It’s just -- Derek uses zip ties. I guess I figured it was an op-wide thing.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Derek is built like a brick shithouse. Zip ties are breakable, but one look at Derek and nobody wants to try. Me? The high quality shit saves me time and effort. And manicures. Granted, I had to go back to my _car_ for those. Der keeps bondage cuffs, but there is no fucking _way_ I’m touching those.”

“Just as well.” Stiles shrugs. “I know how to get out of ‘em.”

“No shit?”

“Double-jointed fingers and thumbs.”

“Rock _on_ .” She holds up a fist to bump before realizing that it’s not exactly an option. He shifts his shoulder forward and she taps it with her knuckles. “All right, fine. Supposing you _are_ the Stiles -- ”

“Guilty.”

“Then how do you know about the zip ties?”

“The whole ‘not an insurance adjuster’ thing came out a while ago. He said he was going to tell you.”

“Ugh, that little pansy never tells me anything that’ll get him in trouble. He broke my doll when we were kids and tried to convince me that she’d gone to rehab for an eating disorder.”

“What the fuck?”

She flings her arms up in a ‘got me’ motion before settling back on her perch. “Which leaves me in _another_ awkward position.”

“Look, I know it’s probably alien to you, but what about just leaving it alone. We did the whole deep dark secret thing, and I haven’t told anyone. I don’t _intend_ to tell anyone. I just came over to make a nice dinner for me and my boyfriend and _not_ be knocked out and tied to things.”

Laura’s quiet for a few minutes, just taking him in. “You don’t...mind?”

“How am I supposed to _convince you_ that -- ?”

Just then, his phone rings, and Stiles feels like his life is spiraling out of his control more than ever. Because his boyfriend’s older sister, _another_ ‘morally upright’ contract killer has him tied to a chair, debating whether or not he’s a loose end.

And his phone is blaring _Oh No You Didn’t_ from fucking Mercenaries 2. It had been funny at the time. Now it’s bad ironic. Laura grabs the phone and stares at the screen, but makes no move to answer it.

_Sucka tried to play me, but you never paid me. Never._   
_Oh no you didn’t!_   
_Payback is a comin’, you will be running forever._   
_Oh no you didn’t!_   
_‘Til I get my vengeance, I will never end this mayhem._   
_Oh no you didn’t!_   
_I’m a mercenary. You ain’t got a prayer, you owe meeee!_

For a brief and suffocating moment, there is dead silence as the call goes to voicemail. “Holy shit,” She whispers. “Holy shit.” She starts wheezing _holy shit_ , dissolving quickly into hysterical laughter and inevitable tears. _Holy shit._ Her entire body shakes with the force of her laughter and she buries her face against his knee.

“Are you okay?”

“I believe you,” She gasps. “Holy _shit._ ” She tries to lift her head and fails horribly. And then Derek kicks in the front door.

He does a quick sweep, landing on them almost immediately, and scowls when he spots Laura mid-giggle fit in his lap. Stiles sighs, finally easing his arms out from behind the chair and waving to show he’s all right. The loose cuff dangles incriminatingly from his wrist.

Laura stops laughing abruptly and sits up, staring at the binding. “You little bitch. Double-jointed?”

“Sheriff's kid. Years of practice.”

“You’ll have to show me, won’t you?”

“ _**Laura** _ _,_ ” Derek growls, “We fucking _talked_ about this.”

“Oh-ho no, little brother. I didn’t hear _anything_ about Captain Kangaroo getting Lois Lane’d in.”

“Because I knew you’d pull something like this!”

“Okay, time out!” Stiles huffs. “You can have the pissing contest later. Right now, I need to get started on dinner. Derek, go wash your hands. Laura, you’re telling me what the fuck this ‘Captain Kangaroo’ thing is about. _Move._ ”

And they listen.

Maybe Stiles is prepared for this shit after all.

\---

By the time Derek and Laura finish giving him the rundown of all the people that now have a vested interest in murdering him, life tastes a lot more like stomach acid. It isn’t even fear for his own safety. The look on Derek’s face when he recounted what happened to his first girlfriend was enough to make Stiles’ insides ache.

He spends the entire night curled around his boyfriend, singing Sinatra and petting his hair. Derek doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t move his face from Stiles’ shoulder, either.

They keep their shoes on, just in case.

\---

In the end, Stiles realizes that he’s probably a little _too_ prepared for this shit.

He’s trying to load Derek’s birthday present into the back of the Jeep, but it isn’t exactly easy. He should ask Derek about his weight lifting regimen because Stiles has no doubt his boyfriend could lift this monster no problem. He huffs, getting ready to turn around and shove backwards until it’s safely stuffed up and into the boot, but then he stops short.

The itching feeling between his shoulder blades remains, despite his squirming in place. He can _feel_ someone watching him. “You just gonna stand there, or…?”

“Oh, but it’s so much fun to watch you struggle.”

Stiles gives one final, determined push and slots the chair into a reasonably balanced position. It’s not exactly ‘inside’ the boot, but it won’t fall out while he turns to face the music.

The man from the supermarket stands before him, stylishly dressed and smiling like a serpent. “Mr. Stilinski. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Do I want to know who from?” Stiles hedges, leaning against the rear bumper with his hands just behind him, only slightly supporting him. The pressure is there.

“Would it make you feel better? Knowing? I’m always so curious. What must it be _like_ inside your head, knowing you don’t have very long at all?”

It feels like being dropped in cold water, sudden and unsettling, but after the initial shock of what exactly is going on, he stands on steady ground. His feet move into a familiar stance, his heart beats steady, and his breathing is slow and even. He leans up off the boot, laughing lightly. “I don’t know.” He says. One arm swings up and forward, and he braces with the other hand. “You tell me.”

The shot rings out and _then_ he starts to panic.

There is a person-shaped heap on the asphalt next to his car. A person-shaped heap that he _punched a hole in_. With a gun. Oh holy shit, this is so not the same as shooting at a paper target. He looks down at the man bleeding on the ground and hits the speed dial for Derek.

“Stiles?”

“Hey, babe. Hi. Hello there. Whoa ho.”

“Stiles, are you all right?”

“Uh…” Stiles nudges the man’s arm with the toe of his converse. “I’m pretty sure that’s a no. Holy shit. Okay so I kind of shot a guy. Not kind of. I shot a guy. Like murdered. I think I might have murdered him hardcore. No take backs. For real. Derek, I’m going to grown-up jail.”

“You _what_?”

“ _Shot a guy._ Like I just said. Like ‘Bang, bang my baby shot me down.’ I’m pretty sure he was gonna kill _me,_ but I beat him to it. He monologued, so I improvised and now he’s leaking. Fuck fuck fuck okay.”

“Stiles, I need you to calm down and tell me where you are.”

Stiles rattles off the intersection, then realizes distantly that he’ll have to finish stuffing Derek’s surprise into the back before he gets there. Can he fit a body in there, too? His trunk’s pretty spacious, but the chair is big, and he doesn’t want to get blood all over it because...oh wow, he’s warped. “Baby, I murdered a dude and I don’t have any room in the boot. Or a tarp. I need a tarp, right? Holy shit I murdered a dude and now I'm freaking the fuck out because I don't have a murder blankie to wrap him in.”

“Stiles. _Stiles!_ What I’m about to tell you I’m saying as a professional. You need to calm the fuck down. Don’t try to move him.”

“Yeah, okay. Yeah. Deep breaths no screaming.”

“I’ll be there in five. I love you.”

“Okay, yeah. Derek?”

“Yes, Stiles?”

“It’s different when it’s real.” He whispers.  

“I know.”

 

\---

 

The good news is that the guy isn’t dead. Derek applies basic first aid to make sure he doesn’t bleed out the rest of the way, coaching Stiles through basic breathing exercises the entire time. “Can you run me through what happened?”

Stiles does as efficiently as possible, leaving out the details of the surprise and consequently earning himself a look somewhere between suspicion and affection. “And then I called you. The end.”

“Fine.” Derek says. “Just let me get a look at him.” He places a firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turns him to examine his face. And nearly drops him right back onto the pavement.

Stiles ‘eeps’ as Derek nearly falls over looking back at him. “Do you know who this is?”

“I don’t wanna say ‘Big Bird’… ?”

Derek’s eyes narrow in the flat, unamused look that typically follows this sort of humor. “My uncle. You shot my uncle.”

"Oh holy shit. Oh my gosh, Derek. I didn't mean--"

"Stiles, it's _okay_ . I've been trying to kill him for years. He’s a sociopathic _asshole_." Derek stands up in a single smooth motion, taking Stiles’ face in his hands. “You just took down a very bad man. I’m proud of you.”

Stiles leans up to kiss him, his breath evening out again in contact. He wraps himself up in Derek, in the strong presence of him, and forgets everything else. It lasts for a few moments until Derek’s uncle, still on the ground at their feet, lets out a soft, miserable groan. “Uh… so how are we gonna… ?”

"Shh." Derek grins against his lips. "I brought a murder blankie."

\---

Months later, things have settled into a pleasant routine.

The unease of not knowing exactly where Peter has ended up has mostly dissipated. Derek assures him that the injury Stiles has dealt him has left him unable to return to the business of chaos _and_ helped deter the authorities from putting him out of everyone else’s misery.

People like Peter are an eternal dilemma, Derek says. They’ve done and learned too much to be left alive, but they also happen to have done and learned too much to be killed. Stiles likens the entire thing to a cat with buttered toast strapped to its back.

Derek tries too hard not to laugh.

In the wake of stress and worry, they settle in again. They celebrate Derek’s birthday by breaking in his comfy new bloodstain-free chair, and soon after that Derek’s Ikea problem is solved when Stiles’ things migrate into his apartment.

Things are good.

Derek is settled on the couch, reading _Night Watch_ while Stiles sprawls belly down, his legs across his boyfriend’s lap as he sorts through college applications. His gap year is almost over, and despite his best efforts, he hasn’t managed to save all that much. “That’s it. I have failed at life.”

"I don't think so." Derek rumbles in that deep, reassuring tone that makes him want to curl up and take a nap. And then, because he is actual perfection, he starts massaging Stiles' calves with firm presses of his thumbs.

Stiles almost forgets the dim smudge on the horizon that is his future."I could probably get a scholarship, but there's no way I can pay off the student loans I'll need. I'll be in debt forever. I'll have to be your kept boytoy. I will never accomplish anything in life, Derek. _I will suck forever._ "

"Well, you're definitely good at sucking, so there's nothing wrong with that." Derek grins, and doesn't even flinch when Stiles pinches his thigh. "But the rest isn't really true."

"Delusional McDreamy say what?" He locks eyes with Derek over his shoulder.

"You took down Peter, remember?"

"It's not something I'm likely to forget. I can't exactly put it in my college apps, though."

"Stiles." Derek pulls him up so he's straddling his hips. "I wasn't kidding when I said he was a bad man."

"Yeah, yeah. You told me like fifty times. Doesn't mean I don't still feel kinda crappy."

"You might if you let me finish."

"Okay, okay. Fine. What?"

"My uncle had a price on his head for more than five million dollars." Derek says. "I think you can probably afford college."

"Five."

"Five."

"Million."

"Yes."

"American dollars?"

"Did you want it in francs?"

"What the fuck did he _**do** _?!"

"It would be easier to list things he _didn’t_ do. He really had a thing for toppling small governments. It was problematic."

"Let it never be said that Stiles Stilinski is not a problem-solver."

"Never."

"Oh my gosh."

\---

In light of his sudden financial stability and their seeming domestic bliss, Stiles is walking on air when he invites his father up for Thanksgiving Dinner. It will be the first time he and Derek meet, and while Stiles is somewhat nervous, he also has every confidence that his father will see exactly how wonderful Derek is.

Because Derek is all kinds of wonderful.

Except he kind of sucks a little bit in the kitchen. Stiles spends the morning balancing it out, which makes for an irritated six foot tall slab of boyfriend, but he’ll get over it. “I’m _sorry_.” Stiles whines. “He’s just finally dating Melissa. We’ve been betting on it forever, and I just want this dinner to be nice.”

“It’s _going_ to be nice, Stiles. Just calm down. You’re going to give yourself a nosebleed, and I do _not_ need iron in my cranberry sauce.”

Stiles is all set to start with the wheedling and the guilt, but then a strong, steady knock comes at the front door, and he’s bolting out of the kitchen, still in his Bottom Chef apron. Which explains the bizarre look his father levels him with when he opens the door.

It might also have something to do with the dying whale noise Stiles makes when he spots his father’s date. That’s not Melissa McCall. He probably should have _asked_ when his father mentioned oh-so-timidly that he’d be bringing a guest.

This would be the universe coming back to bite him in the ass.

“You must be Stiles.” Peter Hale grins into the yawning awkwardness. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Val, Micaela, Ivy, Alena, and Miz--all of whom probably helped a lot. 
> 
> Especially with my decision not to murder Peter. I whined a lot about that. 
> 
> Also, keep your eyes peeled for the sequel--
> 
> In which Peter and John go on vacation, assassins crash the party, and it falls to Derek and Stiles to save their skins without letting the Sheriff know about the family business. 
> 
> :)
> 
> Come see me @ : [anabundanceofstilinskis.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com)


End file.
